Page 128 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Georgiana?What, pray tell, is the precise nature of your relationship with my cousin.”
Darcy gaped, horror at how his explanation might sound tripping through him. “No—no, Colonel—my apologies. My meaning was confused. My wife is her maid, her companion. I have been working in the stables and as a footman. Pray, forgive my clumsy words.” He swallowed and tried again. “Let me begin afresh. I am making a muddle of this.”
His tongue seemed made of lead, affected by both cold and fatigue. He began haltingly, then faster as the urgency of the truth forced him forward. He told of their employment a month previous; of his wife’s work as both scullery and lady’s maid, as well as companion to Mrs. Georgiana; of Wickham’s drunken return and the threat he posed to Georgiana and her unborn child; of the blow given in a moment of desperate defense; of the threat to fetch the magistrate and the fear that the man’s temper might yet yield to worse.
“Did my cousin send a missive with you? Anything to vouch for your character?”
“No. No, she did not. I… I am afraid that the idea of my being doubted did not even occur to us. Time was of the essence, and Mrs. Wickham was understandably quite distraught. Mrs. Reynolds assisted her up to her chambers.”
The colonel’s scowl deepened. He stood silent for a measured beat, assessing the man before him as if weighing coin.
“You expect me to believe that a stranger ridden hard into my gates declares that my cousin is imperiled, and that you have not thought to obtain a letter, a written word, any confirmation?” he said at last. “It is sudden, and it sounds convenient.”
Darcy felt the hot, helpless heat of anger rise. He had no time for diplomacy. He had no parchment of proof because there had been no time for prudence. “Blast, Richard,” he heard himself blurt out.
Both men froze. The use of the colonel’s Christian name left them astonished—the one at the impertinence, the other at the misstep.
“Honestly, sir,” Darcy continued, his voice once again calm, “I do not blame you for your doubts. Wickham is a cad of the worst sort, and if any man has reason to mistrust him, you have seen enough of the Continent to be wise. All I can offer is my oath and urgency. Pemberley needs assistance now.”
For a long moment, not a word was spoken. Outside, the wind pressed cold fingers against the windows, and Darcy stood beneath his cousin’s searching stare, waiting—heart pounding—for judgment to fall.
Come on, Richard,Darcy urged his cousin internally.Surely some part of you must recognize me, trust me.
Chapter 25
After waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulders eased a fraction. He folded his arms and gave Darcy a long, searching look. “I do not know if what you are saying is genuine,” he said at last in a measured tone. “Nevertheless, one does not ignore a plea for protection on behalf of a woman in danger. If you are sincere—and I shall judge that as I may—then I will go.”
He hesitated, then added with grim humor, “On the other hand, if this is a trap... if Mr. Wickham has set a snare for me, you will find that I am not easily bested. You will answer to me. Do you understand?”
Darcy felt relief and fear in equal measure. He bowed his head. “Perfectly, Colonel. I will bear any consequence if this is a falsehood. But I beg of you, sir… please, come with haste.”
“Very well.” The colonel turned to the door as though setting a point to be made. “Give me an hour to gather myself and a small party. I will take my batman and a few of the strongest stableboys.”
As the colonel strode from the room, Darcy felt a surge of hope.Perhaps all can be made right.
As Darcy waited in the drawing room with the door now ajar, he could see Matlock’s front hall slowly began to fill withactivity. Footmen and maids rushed to and fro, setting out more candles against the darkening night and closing the house for the evening.
Then, through the din, there was a the distinct sound of the click of a cane on the marble floor.
Matlock—the earl himself. I wonder if he is as cold in this lifetime as he is in mine.
Darcy was not left to wonder long. A rustle of silk announced their entrance as the Earl and Countess of Matlock swept into the room, every line of their bearing proclaiming authority and disapproval in equal measure. The earl’s expression was carved in stone—his carriage that of a man well accustomed to deference—and the countess followed like a ship under full sail, her chin lifted, her eyes bright with cold inquiry.
Darcy rose to meet them, bowing low. Their gazes swept over him, assessing him from head to toe. The countess’s nose wrinkled slightly, and the earl sniffed disdainfully.
“You are the servant who demanded an audience at this hour?” His silky voice was menacingly soft and smooth.
“I am, my lord.”
“You come from Pemberley?”
“Yes, sir.”
The earl exchanged a look with his wife. Her lips barely moved, but the faint curl of them conveyed disapproval enough for both.
“And what,” she asked, her voice light with disdain, “could possibly warrant a servant disturbing the household of an earl after sundown?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “There is an emergency at Pemberley, your ladyship. Mrs. Wickham—your niece—has sent me in haste to fetch Colonel Fitzwilliam. Her husband has returned and poses a danger to her.”
